I'm dropping out of Strange angel for the same reason I don't like my last chapter - just get to it, already. I'm not sure I've ever really given Bill Evans my full ears. He's buried just up the street from me. I was looking for something soft but complete to write to last night and Quiet Now was what I was telling myself as the album of that name played out over my conscious listening. Listenig right now, Sunday is a masterwork of sizzling cymbals. My minimalist listening tendency is requesting that the melodies be relegated to a pulse bolstering up the sting, hence where the Necks come in, since that's pretty much what they do, but wow, Bill Evans is good.

The songs on Sunday are landscapes painting themselves, each elementment applying one translucent layer of its own golden sap at a time, the way the real masters did it. It's not the pigment but the glaze and the see-through. It made me think how we don't really see a thing; we see its molecules, all bunched up, all of them and what we see is the blur of that bunching. We see those spaces between the molecules. I wonder if what we hear works the same way? OK, I know what's wrong with my chapter now.

I'm ditching Sex and rockets too for W. C Handy's autobiography. Sentences! From the first few pages:

Where the Tennessee River, like a silver snake, winds her way through the red clay hills of Alabama, sits high on these hills my home town, Florence.

I was too small to know what a viper was my mother caught me in the act of picking one up. I found it upon awakening in my bed.

I was an expert with a rock, of which there was no scarcity.

...I knew the music of every songbird and all the symphonies of their unpremeditated heart.

The run-on is gloriously his. The Dirtbombs being remixed back into techno posesses a similar serpentine beauty, ouroboros, even.

W. C. Handy, "Memphis Blues"

The Necks, "The Royal Family"

Bill Evans Trio, "Alice in Wonderland"

Ed. to add: Fieldwork is the kind of jazz outfit we who work in this field refer to as a "motherfucker."